


wouldn’t it be nice?

by moonrocks



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Swimming, Vacation, shout-out to investopedia for teaching me what venture capitalism is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonrocks/pseuds/moonrocks
Summary: Kendall smiles and takes another sip of his drink, letting the cool glass linger against his palm to drag him further into the present. Somehow, Stewy always manages to tease a reaction out of him. His presence overwhelms, cancelling out whatever unpleasant feeling preceded it. Kendall chases the familiarity of him.Set five months after "This Is Not For Tears."
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Kendall Roy
Comments: 18
Kudos: 86





	wouldn’t it be nice?

**Author's Note:**

> I think the fact that this is titled after a Beach Boys lyric is all you need to know.
> 
> Post-season 2 AU where Kendall hasn’t perjured himself in front of congress and everything is good and fine and nice and good. And Stewy is there!

Somewhere in the Maldives archipelago, Kendall stands with a drink in hand, pool water inching up to his elbows. 

The air smells like suntan lotion, fruity and artificial like pineapple rum, the pool like table salt and sea spray. The ocean in front of him is an uncomfortable shade of travel brochure blue, while the villa opposite is blocky and modernist, white concrete dyed sepia by the filter of Kendall’s sunglasses. It’s grossly oversized for just two people and a reduced household staff. Lavish interior, a fully equipped gym, entertainment room, four-car garage, two bedrooms and three bathrooms per person. Knowing Stewy, he probably bought the property to host his own bacchanals: a hotspot for hedonism and debauchery, not a haven for the disgraced son of a disgraced media mogul. 

Water laps up against Kendall’s chest, pulling him in like an embrace. The balmy one o’clock sunshine beats down on his skin while the breeze tousles his damp hair. He takes a sip from his vodka on the rocks—less vodka, more rocks—and sinks down further into the pool. The diluted alcohol flattens on his tongue. 

He closes his eyes, swallows, floats. The water surrounds him, jewel-coloured against the decorative tiles and temperature-controlled, while water of a different kind floods his mind: frigid and opaque, arrant with the smell of rotting wood and wet leaves. The bath in his room runs, the steaming spray of the shower head digging into his back like a thousand spindly spider legs. He bleeds from his wrist, wrings mud from his clothes. 

Kendall opens his eyes when he hears an obnoxious splash erupt from the deep end of the pool. He looks over just as Stewy breaks the surface. His usually tidy hair curtains the sides of his face, sopping, characteristic grey streak twisted into a curlicue across his forehead. Stewy grins warmly at Kendall and the memory of the accident immediately fades.

“Dude!” Stewy shouts as he treads water. He smooths back his hair. “Did you see that? I fucking, like, fully did a flip, bro. Like I was in poolside Cirque du Soleil. Or Jackass. Or whatever.”

Kendall smiles and takes another sip of his drink, letting the cool glass linger against his palm to drag him further into the present. Somehow, Stewy always manages to tease a reaction out of him. His presence overwhelms, cancelling out whatever unpleasant feeling preceded it. Kendall chases the familiarity of him. 

“Uh, yeah, sure thing,” Kendall says, biting back a smirk. Another sip of vodka. It stings his gums but soothes his insides. “I bet it was epic, bro.” 

“Ken, I’m not fucking with you,” Stewy insists, briefly stretching out to float on his back, then straightening again. “Are you seriously not impressed? I swear to God, it was badass. Really. You should have seen it.” 

Stewy grins, bright and wide, slightly sly as always. His tan has deepened since they arrived on Tuesday, a flush returning to his cheeks that was lost during autumn in New York. He looks less tired, less drained. He looks _good_ , and Kendall feels painfully juvenile for noticing so often and so intensely, like he’s sixteen years old again and staring down at Stewy from the upper deck of his father’s yacht, trying to ignore the sinewy muscle Stewy developed over the summer of 1996.

“Whatever you say, Stew.”

Kendall watches as Stewy swims over to the shallow end, his movements mockingly predatory as his nose hovers just above the waterline. The flick of his eyebrows indicates that he must be humming the Jaws theme in his head. Rolling his eyes, Kendall turns away and sets his drink down. He folds his arms over the edge of the pool and rests his chin against his fist. He looks out at the ocean, endless except for the hazy shape of islands in the distance, jagged and diminishing like the electrocardiogram of a failing heart.

It had taken some convincing, but Kendall had finally agreed to an impromptu getaway. Stewy had complained that New York was getting claustrophobic, even once the dust had settled after the press conference and the subsequent internal investigation, litigation, and congressional hearings. The proxy vote was five months ago. Five months since the shareholders sided against Logan Roy. Five months since the firm gracelessly slipped from family control and into the hands of Sandy and Stewy. 

Or, rather, Stewy Hosseini: majority shareholder and recently appointed Waystar CEO. 

Kendall never thought the name of his childhood best friend and the title his father destroyed the world for would ever run side-by-side. Partially fuelled by his disbelief, Kendall had kept up with the resulting furore. The _Times_ had claimed the acquisition was the corporate equivalent of running into a burning building to strip it for scraps, while other publications were somewhat kinder, projecting a stable financial future for the company with Stewy at the helm. 

Either way, Kendall had watched Stewy exhaust himself with the Cruises cleanup, bend beneath pressure from congress, kickstart a corporate image campaign to temper public opinion of the firm. Kendall had read the profiles over breakfast, seen the interviews on daytime news and observed the media circus that followed. He knew what he was giving up when he handed over those documents, but he had no real notion of what Stewy would be up against once Waystar was finally and firmly his.

At first, Kendall thought the trip was Stewy trying to make it up to him, for the proxy battle, for the animosity between them when the initial deal fell through. But now he thinks Stewy bringing him along was less of an apology than it was a covert means of escape. Not just for him, but for Stewy too. 

Stewy closes in. He wraps his arms around Kendall, then drops a kiss onto his shoulder. His lips smooth out the water droplets that freckle his skin. Kendall feels some of the tension in his muscles melt away at the touch. He exhales, pressing back against Stewy who holds him tighter in response.

“Am I crashing your one-man party?” Stewy asks. 

Kendall shakes his head. “Nah, man.”

“Good,” Stewy says. “Not that that would ever stop me. You know I love a good party crashing.” Another kiss, this time placed at the nape of Kendall’s neck. Stewy hums. “I feel like your freckles have doubled in the last two days we’ve been here. At fucking least. One, two, three, four, five—”

“What are you doing, dude?” 

“—six, seven, eight. Trying to count them.” Stewy prods at Kendall’s shoulder blades. It tickles, Kendall’s skin prickling beneath Stewy’s damp but soft fingertips. “I was convinced I could when we were kids. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve—man, I’m gonna be here all day. Stay still.” 

Kendall laughs and Stewy returns his laughter, a comforting rumble against his back. It reminds Kendall of easier days, after graduation but before the world held so much weight. Stewy takes him back to that time with just a touch. 

“How was your call, by the way?” Kendall asks.

Stewy groans. He stops his ministrations and Kendall immediately regrets asking, mourning the loss of Stewy’s hands against his back. Stewy leans into him, forehead falling to rest on his shoulder instead. 

“It was tedious as fuck,” Stewy admits. “You would think spinning off a division that just went through the corporate scandal of the century would be easy-peasy with a cherry on top. But, apparently, there’s a fuckton of paperwork involved. Never woulda guessed.” 

Kendall tenses at the mention of Cruises and the mess his family technically left Stewy to clean up. Stewy must notice him shift because he lays his palm flat against his stomach again, thumb brushing back and forth across the skin there. Kendall downs the rest of his drink, then turns to face Stewy. He feels the sudden urge to look at him, the unignorable need to remind himself that Stewy is really here with him and not leaving any time soon. 

His presence, so familiar and certain, reassures Kendall that they both made it through, if not unscathed then intact enough to know where to place their missing pieces. Kendall can still see the scars when he looks at Stewy, the disfigured outline of the flesh torn from his chest when Kendall rescinded his equity and sided with Logan again. The wound is there, but it is healing, and every time Kendall blinks, he thinks the scar fades a bit more under the sun. 

“Hey, Stew, you’re doing a good job,” Kendall says, resting a reassuring hand on Stewy’s bicep. He presses his fingers into the muscle. “You know that, right?” 

Stewy blinks at him. His shit-eating grin falters, softening into something more sincere. “Thanks, man,” he says. “You mind telling that to the shareholders? I’ve had their fucking garlic breath down my neck since the vote.” 

“Tough being top dog, huh?” 

Stewy sighs. He leans forward to grip the edge of the pool, pinning Kendall between his arms. “To be honest, it fucking sucks,” he says. “But you, my friend, made me a shit ton of money. Which does help with the sleepless nights.”

“So, is that why you brought me here?” Kendall teases. “Is this, uh, some kind of positive reinforcement? Trying to form a Pavlovian response or whatever so I keep lining your pockets?” 

“I think you might be projecting, bro. Consider this,”—Stewy lazily gestures towards the villa, the pool, the beach below—“like, a honeymoon of sorts. You know, first comes the submission of incriminating documents to congress, then comes a successful multi-billion dollar acquisition.”

Kendall snorts. “I mean, traditionally you don’t fuck someone before the honeymoon, bro.”

“I didn’t fuck you, Ken, I fucked your dad. And you got him all lubed up for me. Don’t fucking forget.” 

“Ugh, Jesus, dude.” 

“You shouldn’t sell yourself short is all I’m saying.” 

Stewy teeters back and forth on his heels. The water stirs, gently lapping up against the side of the pool. As Kendall’s smile fades, the sun briefly disappears behind a cloud, the only one Kendall has seen all afternoon, before it re-emerges, somehow all the warmer. A sweat breaks out behind his ears. He sinks down into the pool until his chin breaches the water. It soothes him, flooding into his ears, plugging them like clumps of cotton. The world goes quiet except for the sound of Stewy unable to stand still, fidgeting, droplets rolling off his fingertips with a rhythmic plink.

Kendall closes his eyes and remembers childhood summers in the Hamptons. His father, newspaper open on his knee beneath a parasol, sitting beside the pool but never getting in. He can hear Roman laughing as he does cannonballs off the diving board, splashing Shiv in the face and sending her squealing. Connor is off somewhere, silent and mostly unnoticed, while Caroline sunbathes, her yellow dress blanched by the sunshine. 

Kendall has barely spoken to them in months.

He chases the memory instead of the present. Ten years old, eleven years old, twelve years old. The summers were always more distinct when he was younger, each June to September characterized by a personhood that was ever-changing. The memory persists. At thirteen, Kendall douses his head in the ocean, plugs his nose and sinks to the sand. Stewy is there somewhere, laughing, following him into the water. He is always somewhere, either beside Kendall or at the back of his mind.

“Hey.” Kendall feels Stewy brush a hand through his hair, fingernails against his scalp dragging Kendall towards the here and now. Stewy swipes a wet strand from Kendall’s forehead, inspects it. His hair has been going grey at the roots. “Did, uh, did you think any more about that shit we talked about?” 

Kendall smirks beneath the water before tipping his chin above it to speak. “We talk about a lot of shit, Stew.”

“Yeah, sure, but, you know.” Stewy fiddles with another strand of hair, twists it between his fingers. Kendall feels him tug. “We talked about you getting back out there, getting back on your feet?”

Kendall narrows his eyes at him, his interest piqued. “What? VCing?”

“Yeah, man, venture fucking capital,” Stewy says. His enthusiasm sounds a bit forced, if not well-meaning. “I mean, you could get back into your, uh, your fucking solar cell shit. Energy-efficient light bulbs? Supporting college students or whatever the fuck you wanted to do before all this.” 

Kendall stiffens, unduly reminded of his fallow period after the vote of no confidence blew up in his face. It had left him scrambling for his dignity, and he had only lost more of it in the process.

He scoffs, shakes his head. “Dude, I’m not sure investors are killing themselves to throw money at the VC fund of the dude who, in your words, lubed up his dad for his long-time nemesis and corporate raider best pal to fuck him dry. On live TV.” 

Stewy sighs. “Okay, look, maybe not,” he says, playfully leaning back in the water. He raises his eyebrows. “But I know someone who might be interested in investing.” 

Kendall frowns at him. “Uh, okay, who?” 

“Me, dude,” Stewy says. It comes out too quickly, clipping off the end of Kendall’s question like Stewy could barely hold in his answer. It sends Kendall reeling, but Stewy continues talking before Kendall is able to voice his surprise. “Fucking _duh_. Look, Ken, if this deal goes through with Cruises, I will be very, very rich. Well, _richer_. And I can throw a dime your way. Or a few dimes. Several dimes.” 

Kendall feels his chest tighten. “Seriously, Stew? You would do that?” 

“Yeah, seriously.” Stewy grins. He closes back in, presses a pruney palm against Kendall’s cheek. It calms him, but the excitement of the offer is stirring. And so is the guilt. It floods Kendall all at once: the bear hug, the press conference, the cleanup, the boy. “Hey, I owe you. Remember?”

Kendall drops his gaze, but Stewy follows it. He teases it upwards again with the press of his fingers. Kendall is drawn to the thumb against his jaw. He looks at Stewy, forces himself to. He owes him that much.

“Half a billion, Ken. This time, not liquid, but I’ll see what I can do. Limited partners or whatever. My guys will call your guys, we can draw up the paperwork, etcetera.”

Kendall sighs. “I dunno, Stew. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“Uh, yeah, I kinda fucking do.” 

“Stewy—”

“Just let a good thing happen, Kendall.” Stewy leans in closer and their noses almost brush. “Take the money, dude. Go save the world.”

Kendall worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “What about the shareholders?”

“I can deal with whatever shit they throw my way. I promise.”

“What about Sandy?”

“Same fucking thing.”

Kendall goes quiet as his excuses run out. The offer is interesting, to say the least, but Kendall is used to punishment, not generosity. Anything more feels undeserved. Yet, Stewy is hard to say no to, especially like this, looking down at him with unflinching fondness, maybe even trust. Kendall brightens, just a little bit. 

“I mean, uh, I’ll have to think about it,” Kendall says. The excitement takes hold again, and the ideas he had pushed down after pulling out of the takeover—becoming increasingly involved in tech, innovating news media, investing in diverse and unconventional start-ups—come rushing back. “I—I’ll need to talk it over with Frank and everything. To, like, sort out the optics.”

“Yeah, of course,” Stewy says. “Run it by your team, vet me half to death. I welcome it, dude. But I fucking want in.” His voice softens. “I want in on you.”

Kendall feels warm all over. “Okay, alright, sure. Good pitch, Stew.” He tries to play it off, holding back his smirk as he attempts to seriously consider the offer, but his affection for Stewy peaks through. It forces out his answer. He is too impatient to pretend he wants otherwise. “If you close the deal then, um, yeah, offer tentatively accepted.”

“Uh, tentatively?” Stewy blows a raspberry. “Bro, you know that deal is in the fucking bag. Have a little faith in me.”

Stewy smiles goofily and Kendall laughs. “I do, Stew.”

“Good.”

Stewy wraps his arms around Kendall, then kisses him, gently but enthusiastically. Kendall returns that enthusiasm as he kisses Stewy back, hands carding through Stewy’s damp and curling hair before clinging to his shoulders, skin warm beneath his fingertips from the sun. Stewy holds him steady beneath the water and Kendall smiles against his lips. Every other emotion, except for contentedness, grows distant. 

**Author's Note:**

> *Holding back tears* yeah, it would be nice. . . Thanks for reading!


End file.
